


Bite My Tongue

by apodiopsys



Category: Supernatural, Ten Inch Hero
Genre: Blowjobs, Crossover, M/M, Piercings, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean stops in Santa Cruz on his way to grab Sam at Stanford, smokes a joint on the beach, gets a case of the munchies and meets a crazy gothic/punk guy who works at a sandwich shop. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Bite My Tongue

Dean takes the coastal route on his way to re-recruiting Sam to go hunting Dad in favor of schooling himself in Stanford. He figures, it’s an extra twenty miles and takes half an hour longer so he might as well get a nice beach and water view while he’s at it. His brother has no idea that he’s on his way over so if he’s a little later than he initially planned... well. No one’s going to know. He takes off early morning, as soon as the sun is up and he floors the gas pedal almost all the way down the highway, barely slowing down as he turns the exit and keeps going until he hits a beach.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he leans over into the passenger seat and opens the glovebox, pulling out map after map and dropping them on the floor until he finds the baggie of joints he’d put there for safe keeping. “Jackpot,” he grins loosely, taking one out. He doesn’t need more than the one: he just wants a buzz, he doesn’t need to be stoned. He saving that for loosening Sammy up, knowing how uptight he’s going to be after being away from the business for so long.

He smokes on the beach, taking off his boots and rolling the hems of his faded blue jeans up. The sand is warm underneath his feet, and he curls his toes against the crunch of it, closing his eyes as he lights the Zippo and takes a first deep drag. Dean pulls the smoke in his lungs, tips his head back to the sky and holds it there until he’s dizzy from lack of oxygen and forced to exhale. The beach is mostly empty, save for a few people swimming on the beach. He’s lying horizontal on the sand by the time he’s done with the joint, sucking the last of the life out of it. There’s a strong clump of hash at the very bottom and it goes straight to his head, blurring his vision for a solid couple of minutes. When he opens his eyes - he doesn’t even remember closing them - the clouds are all rushing above him and he comes to this really slow awareness that he’s _hungry._

There’s a sandwich shop somewhere up the road, Dean is absolutely one hundred percent positive that he passed one on his way down to the beach, and he stubs out the end of the joint in the sand and starts walking up the road, bare feet and all. It’s almost summer and the pavement is _hot_ and he jogs to the other side of the street, hems of his pants hanging over the back of his ankles as he walks in the cooler shadows. The sandwich shop is either further away than he thought or he’s lost, but Dean doesn’t get lost so he keeps walking up the way he came until he finds it. It’s on the corner of the street five blocks up and Dean is grinning when he walks inside; he wasn’t lost and he didn’t imagine it and they have _sandwiches._

God bless the Beach City Grill.

There’s a girl standing at the till and Dean saw the once over she gave him the second he opened the door to the shop. He sees the way one eyebrow quirks up and the smile she gives him and he knows, _knows_ that she is absolutely smoking hot and that behind the counter is the kind of body some guys don’t even get to see in a life time. But Dean also sees the guy standing behind her at the grill, and he can see that the back of his shirt says _Ask For Your Free Sample_ and he can see the way his hair is spiked up in a blue mohawk and he has this burning need to know what the front of his shirt says.

He prays that he’ll turn around while he’s walking up to the counter and he does and Dean’s heart pretty much falls out of his chest and gets walked all over by a guy in an _Orgasm Donor_ t-shirt. He walks to the counter and the girl - the girl who is so _hot_ and who’d probably be willing for a quick fuck in the bathroom or something - is making eyes and flicking her hair over her shoulder. Dean doesn’t even look at her. “I’ll have a salami sub,” he says, locking eyes with the guy behind her. “Ten inches.” There’s a stretch of a few seconds silence, and for good measure he adds, “And I’ll take an orgasm too, since you’re offering them.”

The few seconds stretches into a few more seconds and then the guy breaks into this smile and he nudges the the girl and says, “See, Tish, I told you someone hot would ask.” Dean lets out a breath and, okay, that’s good. He hadn’t even been totally sure that it’d go over well but he jumped on it because God, there is something about the hair and the tattoos and all the silver piercings that he _wants._

There are girls standing by the computer screen whispering to each other and Dean offers them a wave, leaning against the counter while he waits for his sandwich... and the orgasm. It’s slid across the counter in white paper, ten inches salami written outside in block letters.

The guy leans across the counter and says, “It’s so good you’ll come,” in such a serious tone that Dean’s heart drops for all the wrong reasons and - was he wrong? “Nah, I’m kidding. I’m on my break in ten minutes, now if Trucker’ll let me off early,” he bats his eyelashes in the direction of an older guy sitting in one of the booths surrounded by paper, who nods at him. Dean assumes he’s Trucker. He leans forwards and lowers his voice, and Dean leads in instinctively. “It’s just, there’s something you need to know. See, with guys, I’ve never really....” he trails off and glances to the left and Dean blinks a few times. Everyone in the shop - the girls at the computer, Trucker, an old woman with a dog, an elderly guy by the window, the hot chick, _everyone_ bursts out laughing. Dean looks confused. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you some time. Meet you out back?”

Dean’s head is spinning and he leaves the sandwich that he didn’t even pay for on the counter, leaving through the front door with the bell dinging behind him. They’re kissing before he’s even completely out back, all slick lips and clicking teeth. “ ‘m Priestly, by the way,” the guy - _Priestly_ \- says, and kisses him again without even waiting to get a name back, tongue curling slow and hot over his and tracing over the roof of his mouth in ways that make Dean weak at the knees. He realizes up this close and personal that he wears eyeliner and Christ it looks good, making green eyes greener.

One way or another they’re leaning against a wall, and he turns his face to the side, says, “Dean. ‘m Dean.” He’s gasping for air, feels like he’s just been kissed within an inch of his life. He probably has.

He’s being pulled by his wrist over to a van covered in stickers, and Priestly is digging in the pocket of his cargo shorts until he pulls out a ring of keys and picks one out, unlocking the door and sliding the back open. “What -” Dean starts, but Priestly puts his finger over his lips and says, “Don’t speak,” in an almost completely serious tone of voice. He removes his finger and covers his lips with his own and they end up tangled on the floor of the van, pillows and blankets scattered around them.

“You do this often?” Dean asks, propping himself up on an elbow and really looking around the place. It’s kind of cool, in a retro, hippie wagon kind of way, if you’re into that kind of thing. It smells like weed, although he really shouldn’t be talking considering he lit up on the beach not even half an hour ago. He has to say, though, he prefers the hard lines of his Impala.

Priestly grins all teeth, leaning over Dean to pull the van door shut. “Nah,” he says offhandedly. “Mostly I use the Cosmobile for going to shows and camping out afterwards.” His hand slides around the back of his neck, thumb grazing his collarbone and rubbing it slowly. He leans in and kisses him again, slower than before, deeper. It feels like they’re slowly fusing into one, really awesome human being. Priestly, it turns out, has some secret power and manages to get Dean on his back with his shirt off without him even knowing it. He’s kneeling in between his legs when they both move back for air. He says, “So.” Dean echos him, ( _“So.”_ ) propping himself up on his elbows again. “So, I was thinking about going down on you?”

He almost chokes on his tongue, really he does. “Yeah, sure,” he says in this almost-but-not-quite strangled voice, opening up when Priestly leans forward to kiss him again, licking so deep into his mouth he’s positive he’ll taste him for days. His hands are proving to be as crafty as his mouth is and he’s unbuckling his belt and undoing the buttons and zipping and pulling them down mid thigh, fingers slipping into his boxers and curling around his dick. “Ah, fuck,” Dean hisses, hips pushing up into Priestly’s fist without his consent.

Apparently he’s hot but he gets hotter, because he gives him this half smile and has the devils eyes as he slides down Dean’s body, tongue dipping into his navel on his way south. Dean’s head swings back so fast and so hard when he closes his mouth around the head of his cock that the only thing stopping him from a concussion is one of the many pillows scattered around the van. “Oh _fuck_ , my _God._.”

“You can just call me Priestly, you know,” he says, pulling off with this cocky grin that Dean would want to punch in any other circumstance. With a mouth like that, that does things like _this_ , well. He can look as smug and as cocky as he pleases as long as he doesn’t stop.

He tongues at the slit, at the pre-come that’s pearled at the tip and the way he licks his lips makes Dean groan, low in his chest. “C’mon,” he says. “Please.” Priestly gets the idea that Dean isn’t the kind of guy who asks for things like this, so he does, going down and down and down until the tip is hitting the back of his throat. Dean whimpers, honest-to-God whimpers and Priestly feels a rush of pride like heat go through him, straight down between his legs. His throat constricts a little, tightening around Dean and he pulls back up, using teeth and tongue in all the right places.

Dean’s hips are tipping up in short little cants. He curses his jeans that are in his way; what he really wants is to spread his legs and let Priestly work his magic mouth other places, slide down his body the same way he did and go down on him, flip them over and ride him until his muscles are screaming to stop. He goes back down on him, one arm slung over Dean’s hips to stop him from fucking his throat raw like he knows he’s more than capable of. Priestly pulls off and moves back up Dean’s body when he feels him tightening up underneath him.

His lips touch his chest and his collarbones and his neck, biting to mark that he was there. Dean moans, hands sliding into Priestly’s hair to pull. He jerks him off slowly, rutting against his hip in the same rhythm. Priestly’s tongue traces along the shell of his ear and Dean finds out just what a filthy mouth he has, whispering secrets and what he wants to do to him and, “You gonna come?” Dean does, shaking apart underneath him, breath panting hot against his skin.

He lies spineless against the floor of the van afterwards, a flush sitting high on his cheeks and rapidly rising and falling chest. He looks so calm, completely at ease with his shirt hooked over the drivers seat and his pants undone, splashes of come on his chest. Priestly watches him until Dean can _feel_ that he’s being watched, hairs on the back of his neck rising. “Hey,” he says, and then. “Oh, shit, should I -”

Priestly laughs. “No, I already did.” His eyes do a once over of his body and his clothes are in a more or less completely neat array and that means. It means that he - when - against his. _“God,”_ Dean groans, an _I think I’m in love_ and a _Come here and let’s do that again,_ all rolled into one. He sits up and pulls him down, kissing him and sliding his hands back into his hair like they belong there. When they pull back there’s a line of saliva between their lips and they both laugh, sitting back and wiping off their mouths.

“You gotta watch the do,” he teases, patting his blue hair more or less into place. Dean rolls his eyes. He reaches for his shirt, and then Priestly is right there. “No, wait.” He takes off his own shirt and Dean gets a taste of what’s underneath, pale skin decorated with ink that he wants to touch with his fingers and lips. “Here,” says Priestly, handing him the shirt that he’d previously been wearing. “I got the idea that you liked it.” he winks and puts Dean’s shirt on and he can only stare at him, open mouthed because he’s _never_ met anyone quite like him before.

Outside of the Cosmobile, he says, “If you go into the store Tish’ll give you your sandwich on the house.” He winks at him and goes through the employees entrance, already tying the black apron around his waist. The door bells ring when Dean goes through the front and he’s rewarded with one collective wolf whistle. “Apparently, I can get a sandwich on the house, _Tish_ ,” he says, grinning easily at the girl behind the counter.

“He gets a nine,” comes Priestly’s voice through the kitchen before she can say anything and Dean has the decency to flush, just a little.

“What, no ten?” Tish asks with a teasing smile in Dean’s direction and Priestly appears with the sandwich from before. “Not yet, I haven’t gotten the chance to take him for a real test drive yet.” He moves around the counter and says, “I’m just gonna walk him out,” grabbing Dean’s wrist and pulling him out the door before he even has a chance to say goodbye.

He leads and Priestly follows, not commenting on Dean’s lack of shoes. They talk about the unimportant things, music, the president, where he’s from, where he’s going. “Nice ride,” says Priestly when they get to the Impala and Dean nods proudly.

“Yeah, she’s pretty nice.”

There’s a silence that lasts for a moment too long, and then Priestly is saying, “So, I’m really not usually that kind of a guy,” and he’s tucking a folded piece of paper into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans. “That’s my number and my address, in case you’re ever back in the area. I really hope you’re not a serial killer.” They both eye each other for  some seconds and then start laughing.

He doesn’t say _I’ll call you._ Instead, he kisses him on the lips, careful and sweet, like he means it, and says, “We’re usually up here at least once or twice a year.” Then he’s getting in the Impala and purposely not looking back and purposely not looking at the paper in his pocket because he thinks that if hedid, he’d _stay_ , and he doesn’t lead the kind of lifestyle that includes staying.  



End file.
